


Of Beer and Boredom

by CsMelody



Category: Bartimaeus - Jonathan Stroud
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-29
Updated: 2020-07-29
Packaged: 2021-03-06 05:15:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25597903
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CsMelody/pseuds/CsMelody
Summary: In which Bartimaeus gets Nathaniel to go to a pub and things go wrong. Because of course they do. AU-ish. Hold your beers for a cranky and potentially funny Nat.
Relationships: Bartimaeus/Nathaniel (Bartimaeus)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 21





	1. Dangerous

**Author's Note:**

> Well, this has been sitting around in my laptop since I published it on Fanfiction.net, and I figured it was time I put it here as well, maybe make someone chuckle during these weird and dark times. And because izzybusiness made me.  
> Many thanks to anjumstar for supporting all my writing endeavours, even when they're this weird.

_Nathaniel_

Bartimaeus was a dangerous creature. Nathaniel had known this since he was six, when he’d first met a spirit, and the years had done nothing to assuage this belief. Bartimaeus was a being of fire and air, of great strength, and—Nathaniel admitted begrudgingly to himself—of great intellect. (No one would catch him saying this aloud, though.)

Suffice to say that Nathaniel and Bartimaeus had gone through quite a number of adventures together, and not everyone’s attempt on Nathaniel’s life was quite as creative as they probably thought. Take this time he was kidnapped, for instance—a total predictable and, dare he say, _boring_ occurrence that had made him almost long for Simon Lovelace to be back in town wreaking havoc with his suicidal plans. Bartimaeus would argue that those were the days and, while Nathaniel would never outright agree with him aloud—he did have a reputation to maintain, thank you very much—he always inwardly nodded, especially after one of said boring attempts.

So, they were at a pub of all places, after some prompting from Bartimaeus (read: taunting and daring). Nathaniel was taking his very first sip of German beer—“Ew, it tastes like piss!”—to which Bartimaeus responded with a very patronising pat on his head, and which, in turn, earned him the glare of the year. A couple of chuckles later, everything broke down.

Now, Nathaniel didn’t remember much of what had followed, just a mess of arms and legs, spells being cast about, bottles flying to-and-fro, and a whole lot of yelling in a multitude of languages. Bartimaeus would later tell him that the assailants’ djinn were old pals of his, hence the multilingual repartee. What he did remember was waking up in a dungeon—yes, _really—_ and immediately rolling his eyes at the cliché. That did grant him a kick from a nearby masked perpetrator, to give them some credit. But their score just kept sinking with every new word from the leader’s evil monologue. Nathaniel blinked through it, making mental notes in order to propel the government to rid the country of such idiocy.

Luckily for Nathaniel’s impatient side, Bartimaeus didn’t take the usual century to find him, and probably twenty minutes after the monologue had started to drone on, he was kicking the door in and loudly announcing for everyone to hear, “There you are, honey-boo! I’ve been looking all over for you!” And after strolling right past the gaping faces of Nathaniel’s kidnappers, each one adding to the djinni’s growing grin, he said, “You know, if you wanted some time alone, all you had to do was ask, babe.”

Nathaniel had smirked and played along, slyly replying with, “Who could ever tire of you, sweetie?” Bartimaeus’s grin had curled around his sharper than usual canines—at least as far as the Egyptian boy’s guise was concerned—and he’d leaned forward to press a quick kiss to Nathaniel’s lips before turning around to face the music.

The leader had shouted the others to attention, but before anyone could have the good sense to call their spirits to aid, Bartimaeus had taken them all out and used a rope to tie them up, big festive ribbon and all, with a snide note to the “shoddy, incompetent Night Police Department” taped to it.

Nathaniel and Bartimaeus had marched out of there an hour later, Bartimaeus still smirking, and Nathaniel desperate for a good old shower. So, _obviously_ , Bartimaeus had dragged him to the same bloody pub they’d been at, which had gained them a couple of annoyed looks. And because Bartimaeus felt cheated out of—well, whatever it was—he had forced Nathaniel to drink that German beer that tasted like piss until the end, now wasn’t Nathaniel a man of his word? He sure was, as he’d surely proven five and a half beers later.

Walking home with wobbly legs—which Nathaniel really should have anticipated, now wasn’t Bartimaeus a djinni of his own word too?—and an occasional hand to Bartimaeus’s arm for steadiness, entering the least fun stage of being drunk, Nathaniel decided he would never have German beer again in his life if he could help it. And that he’d never let Bartimaeus goad him into doing something stupid and reckless again.

“I knew you wouldn’t be able to hold your liquor,” Bartimaeus teased halfway home, and Nathaniel crunched up his nose in response, because opening his mouth just seemed like a waste of precious effort. Not to mention it could lead to some improper actions. “I thought they said that the English were drunks.”

The glare Nathaniel gave Bartimaeus only failed to dethrone the last one because Nathaniel could barely spare the energy to convey his message. Bartimaeus did receive it well enough, however, if his snort meant anything at all.

Then they trudged on for a few silent minutes, Nathaniel slowly regaining his strength thanks to the sharp February air and the exercise. When he managed to unglue his eyes from the traitorous ground—Nathaniel was positive Bartimaeus had cast a spell just to spite him—he found the sky lazily waking up along with the city. The stars began to fade, and a new bright glow travelled between buildings and made him squint painfully and the pools of recent rain glisten. Nathaniel had the good sense to wonder how long he’d been out during his kidnapping, and how long Bartimaeus had kept him inside that bloody pub.

The scent of freshly baked bread assaulted his nose once they rounded the corner. Londoners left their gloomy houses to a promising morning, avoiding eye-contact with each other and walking purposefully. Nathaniel felt like he was looking into a mirror as he spotted a young man nibble at an apple as he walked, a briefcase glued to his side like his life depended on it.

“Do I always look like that?” he asked aloud before he could stop himself.

Bartimaeus followed his gaze and replied with, “Well, he at least eats the apple. And you usually manage to look lost even when you know exactly where you’re going, love.”

Nathaniel frowned as he felt the back of his neck heat up. “Will you drop that now?”

Bartimaeus gave a theatrical sigh. “What could you possibly mean?”

“You know what I bloody mean, Bartimaeus. The—those pet names and such.”

“Would you rather have me use your _real_ name, sweetheart?”

Nathaniel groaned softly, frustrated and helpless. “John Mandrake is my name. Use it.”

“Yes, Mr John Mandrake, sir. Any further requests, Mr John Mandrake?”

Nathaniel threw a hopeless glance to the unusually clear skies above. “Bartimaeus, for the love of God, will you just let it be? You’ve already dragged me to a pub, made me drink some horrible beer, halfway through which I got kidnapped—something which _you,_ fearsome and powerful Bartimaeus, couldn’t stop—and then, after that mind-numbingly _boring_ occurrence, you drag me back to the _same_ pub, to drink the _same_ dreadful beer. I think I’ve had enough for the entire week.”

Bartimaeus made empathetic sounds throughout his speech, but Nathaniel would bet they were all fake, so he had hardly any hopes of getting Bartimaeus to stop. If there ever had been any hopes of it to begin with.

However, before Bartimaeus could make everything worse again, they’d arrived home and Nathaniel wasn’t yet beyond crying from relief, so he hastily headed inside and to his bare-walled room, where he stripped down to his boxers, easily slipped into his pyjamas, and for once forwent the mandatory shower in favour of sweet, sweet sleep.

If only Bartimaeus would let him.

“You know, for someone complaining so much, you’ve yet to complain about that kiss in the… _dungeon_.” Bartimaeus giggled at the word, probably still not quite believing himself that those lunatics had taken him to an actual dungeon. Nathaniel could sympathise.

“I’m not about to complain about a strategy that worked and didn’t scar me for life. Especially not tonight. We can talk about your lack of understanding of personal boundaries tomorrow. Goodnight.”

And with that, he was merrily ready to close his eyelids and plunge into dreamland, but Bartimaeus only strolled forward—yes, strolled, he was taking his goddamn sweet time—and unceremoniously pulled one of his eyelids open.

“Bloody hell, Bartimaeus!” Nathaniel shrieked, his mind reeling at his own loudness, as he sat up in a flash and slapped the offending hand away. “Should we talk about personal boundaries right now, then? Fine.” Nathaniel rolled out of bed and put a solid metre and a half between the two of them. Bartimaeus simply grinned at his antics, looking overtly entertained with his chin on his hands.

“You’re such a prude,” he commented. “And yet there was no flinching back then. Maybe you actually get worse when you’re drunk?”

Nathaniel seemed to be glaring a lot that day, but he simply had to do so one more time. “What? Are you going to tell me you’re in love with me now?” Nathaniel chuckled at the idea.

“Not in such human terms, no,” Bartimaeus answered seriously, and got up from Nathaniel’s bed, needing only two steps to close the safe distance Nathaniel had put between them.

Nathaniel felt his stomach do something funny, probably nausea, so he ignored it in favour of staring Bartimaeus down suspiciously. “Alright, you’ve had your fun. You got me to drink that beer, and you got me pissed. You even saved my life tonight, Bartimaeus, and I _am_ thankful for that. But now I need to hibernate. So, if you’ll excuse me.”

Bartimaeus didn’t force him to stop, per se. Nathaniel did get back into bed as planned and had happily tucked his freezing feet under the covers and put his throbbing head back on the pillow, when Bartimaeus said, “Ah, woe is me. My feelings aren’t reciprocated.”

Nathaniel deadpanned at him, even though his heart was thumping against his chest. “Honestly, Bartimaeus, I might sign you up for some theatre lessons, since you clearly do show some talent. If only you wouldn’t try to decimate everyone and everything in the process.”

Bartimaeus plopped down next to him, grin ever present, and Nathaniel sat up again—slower this time, for his head’s benefit. “Will you take them with me, so you learn how to lie better?”

Nathaniel felt his stomach churn. Being drunk was the absolute worst. “That’s an ability I don’t need.”

Normally Bartimaeus would have laughed at that, Nathaniel figured. But now the djinni had left it in the air and leaned in further, and somehow Nathaniel couldn’t make his body move away for the life of him. So, when Bartimaeus kissed him for the second time that day, gentle and chaste, Nathaniel closed his eyes and wondered where the hell his life was leading him if his pastime was snogging a djinni and not find it within himself to be repulsed by the idea.

“Satisfied?” Nathaniel asked after they parted, trying to hide his breathlessness as much as humanly possible.

“Hardly,” Bartimaeus answered without a hint of a grin for a change. “It’s perplexing, really. You’re not a good kisser at all.”

Nathaniel made an indignant sound. “Well, go snog someone else, then! Honestly, all I’m trying to do is get some rest, and here you are, being all sorts of demanding and inappropriate.”

Bartimaeus smiled at his mini-rant. “You just need some practice.”

Nathaniel sputtered. “Some practice, he says! And I suppose you mean with you?”

“Of course. Can’t have you traumatising people.”

Nathaniel stared blankly at Bartimaeus. “And you are obviously a philanthropist.”

“Very true.”

“Huh. Then do be one and let this exhausted human being sleep, will you?”

“Seems fair,” Bartimaeus stated, sliding off the bed.

Nathaniel sighed in relief and wiggled himself inside, punching his pillow twice and then dropping his head on it with a huff. His heartbeat was blessedly coming down and the throbbing and nausea were alleviated from the position. He even let out a sigh of relief to express all of this.

“Just one more thing.”

Nathaniel was about to demand what in the name of all the saints couldn’t wait until a couple of hours later or, if he were blessed enough, the afternoon, when he felt Bartimaeus kiss him on the forehead. Nathaniel couldn’t find it in himself to berate _that_ , so he turned his back on Bartimaeus to save himself from further assaults and possibly to hide his blush.

“Close the door on your way out,” he mumbled.

Bartimaeus was a dangerous creature. Nathaniel had known this since he was six, when he’d first met a spirit, and the years had done nothing to assuage this belief, much less recent events, because while Nathaniel knew spirits to be vicious, he had definitely underestimated the extent to which this was true. So, while he added some more points to Bartimaeus’ ‘dangerous’ score, he heard said dangerous creature make his way to the door and wondered how this was his life.

“By the way, Nat,” Bartimaeus piped up.

“Mhm?” That was about as far as he’d go anymore. Bartimaeus shouldn’t and didn’t need to be encouraged.

“I bet that all of this really did make up for me letting you get kidnapped.”

“ _Excuse_ me?”


	2. Endangered

_Bartimaeus_

If you were to look up the word ‘endangered’ in any regular, good old-fashioned dictionary, I’m sure you’d find an entry solely for Nathaniel, for there can’t be a human being that attracts more danger than said prat. Surely there should be a limit to the amount of stupid situations you could get yourself into as a mortal being with an ephemerous life to boot (1). But, as much as with pretty much anything in his life, it appears, Nathaniel likes to defy the norm. Sometimes I suspect he puts himself in danger just to make my job harder—test the waters, if you may, see if I would be capable of protecting him if an actual serious threat came to be.

(1) There are many examples I could choose from, but I suspect my recent rescuing him from an actual dungeon will suffice for now. I’ll name a few more should the occasion arise.

However, after having saved his life countless times, it seems to me that he is as annoyed by these attempts on his life as I am of having to save him from them. He thinks he hides quite well his agreeing with me every time I mention how boring his attackers have got. But I’ve had enough time to observe his behaviour to know what those pursed lips and quizzical eyebrow mean.

Speak of the devil—I can hear him descend the stairs in lazy steps. I glance at the clock on the white wall to confirm my suspicions that it should be too early for him to be up already considering the previous night. I suppose he needs to eat, and he must have quite the headache if his hangover is as bad as his drunken state was. I smirk at the thought of a dishevelled Nathaniel desperately searching his wooden cabinets for medicine and wincing every time he lets a door slam. So, I sit up on the dark brown leather sofa to watch him through the door to the kitchen.

Nathaniel spots me immediately after and makes his way over, dragging his bare feet like a child. He hits the wooden and glass coffee table lightly before he stops, and then spares it a confused look, as if not expecting to have found it there of all places. His navy-blue pyjama top is hanging comically off his shoulder since he buttoned it up wrong, but he hardly seems to notice as his dazed eyes take me in. With his mouth set in a childish pout and his tousled hair, he looks about as harmless as a lost kitten. Endangered.

“I’m hungry,” he mumbles hoarsely, looking at me expectantly, head tilted slightly to the side. He even dares to deepen his pout when it becomes clear I’m waiting for him to elaborate. “Feed me,” he adds, a bit impatiently.

I almost chuckle at his childish demeanour, opting for a sly grin instead. “I can’t decide if you’re hungover or still drunk.”

Nathaniel sighs dramatically and plops down on the sofa right at my feet. “I’m never drinking again.”

“So everyone says after a particularly bad hangover.”

“I mean it,” he insists, and then frowns as he takes in my relaxed stance on his sofa. I prepare myself for the inevitable. “And it’s _your_ fault.” And there it is.

“How is it my fault that you can’t hold your liquor?” I ask incredulously.

“You let me get kidnapped.” His tone is accusatory, even if there’s not much bite to it and he’s clearly not feeling so sharp. I would commend his determination to remain sober hadn’t it made my life more difficult.

I suppose my little prank has carried on for too long, but a part of me was counting on Nat’s drunken memory—in other words, that he’d forget all about it. Well, maybe it wasn’t the best plan, since he ended up in a _dungeon_ , and who would ever forget _that_? So, he’s robbed me of the chance to tell him exactly the truth and getting him all riled up thinking I was messing with him. Which I suppose is what I’m doing anyway, so it’s all worked out. My genius is unprecedented.

Without commenting, I fall back down on his sofa, half-expecting him to start up the speech about me being on the furniture. I’m not a bloody dog. If I’m on the furniture it isn’t because I wasn’t trained properly, it’s because I don’t care what he has to say about it, and he should bloody well know it (2). I’m not about to turn over so he rubs my belly either, let it be said.

(2) No to mention that it took me two hours and around three hundred form shifts to get rid of a particularly bad itch, so honestly, I won’t be moving for a while, and his furniture knows it. The coffee table and the armchair near the window have taken the brunt of it. And the chandelier is looking a bit droopy, but it’s hardly my fault that it can’t handle the weight of a chimpanzee. Bad engineering is all it is. Nat would have noticed if he weren’t so out of it. Lucky me.

Nathaniel seems to be getting increasingly frustrated, though, because he huffs and childishly crosses his arms. “Were you that bored?”

“Of _you?_ Never, my love. You know watching you sleep is one of my favourite pastimes, along with imagining every possible way in which I could make you choke on bed sheets, but that’s besides the point.”

Hurt flashes in his eyes as they flick over to me, but it’s gone so fast that I’m almost willing to grant I’d imagined it. Except from the fact that, you know, I’m a djinni and therefore hardly make mistakes.

Nathaniel has fixed his stony gaze on the wall opposite from us. “So this was all for your amusement?”

“And yours. Now you can tell people you survived being thrown into the dungeon, eh? Bet that’ll make a great story for you to tell your grandkids one day.”

He frowns, as if struggling to make sense of my words, but then says, “Didn’t know you could get pregnant, Bartimaeus.”

I whip my head around to face him, thoroughly shocked by this out-of-character comeback. I’ve started this new game around two weeks ago, but Nathaniel has refused to take part in it until this very moment. Well, you know what they say. The game is a lot more fun if two are playing it.

“At least buy me dinner first, would you? Goodness.” I shake my head at him, but he isn’t looking at me. So I add, “Besides, you are the one getting pregnant.”

The right corner of his lips twitches at my remark. (3) “I’m not a woman, Bartimaeus.”

(3) I have no idea what the other one is doing, alright? It could be drooping, for all I know. Maybe he’s had a heart attack and everything on the left side of his body is drooping. That would explain this weird behaviour. The alcohol can’t certainly account for _everything_.

“Obviously. But you’re closer than I am. You’re a human being.”

“I guess that is a fair point.”

“Indeed.”

We stay like this for a few moments more—Nathaniel with a lopsided smile, and I with an odd urge bubbling up within—until I can’t take it anymore and get up. Nathaniel looks up at me expectantly and I wonder how this is my life.

“Weren’t you hungry?”

His face instantly lights up. Nathaniel gets off the sofa and wobbly follows me to the kitchen, looking like a bloody happy puppy (4). I snort and start roaming around to find what I need to make him a decent post-drinking breakfast. Which I would know absolutely nothing about, seeing as getting hungover isn’t listed as one of the fun activities djinn get to experience.

(4) Not to be read literally. That’s one image that even I can’t find amusing.

Regardless, I put the kettle on and get the earl grey jar from the cabinet. Nathaniel merely stands dumbly in the middle of the kitchen, silently watching me as I rummage through his fridge and drawers. I inwardly roll my eyes at his lethargic state, and say, “Please tell me you’re just contemplating how marvellous I am and not wetting your pyjamas.”

It’s like he’s been shocked back to life—I can seriously hear him jump a little on the spot. And he gasps too, of course. Predictable Nat. “I was just remembering how to act should you burn this kitchen down. So don’t flatter yourself.”

Maybe the smell of earl grey tea sobered him up a little, because that sounds more like the irritating Nathaniel that I know and immensely dislike. I grin as I say, “I wouldn’t have to if you did it instead.”

I turn around to see him raising an eyebrow at me. A shrug is the response he gets, since I have my hands occupied with preparing his food and therefore can’t use them to supply him with a rude gesture. I unceremoniously crack two eggs into a bowl and start whisking them before even asking him if he’d like his eggs scrambled.

“Sure,” he answers, coming a bit closer to inspect me. I suppose he thinks I’ll poison him should the opportunity arise. He’s not wrong.

“Bacon?”

“Please.”

“Beans?”

“Obviously.”

“You’re such a cliché, Nat,” I say, shaking my head. “Can you at least toast the bread?”

This time he simply huffs as if I were being offensive (5). I hear him moving around as I season the eggs with salt and pepper, stir the beans, and turn the bacon, slightly disgusted with myself for allowing this level of domesticity to settle in over time. The only thing I was missing was a godforsaken apron saying “kiss the cook” and you could send me on my merry way to the loony bin.

(5) I suppose he’s probably able not to kill himself while toasting bread. On the other hand, Nathaniel is unconventional when it comes to the probabilities of cause of death. I wouldn’t put it past him to commit accidental suicide by bread toasting. Remember the title to this piece? Enough said.

“Don’t let the bacon fry too much.”

“I know a few people who would have a lot of thoughts about eating non-crunchy bacon.”

“Well, good thing I don’t care, then.”

I snort. As if that’s true. Then I oblige, promptly removing the bacon from the pan, and adding in the eggs. Nat also doesn’t want milk anywhere near his eggs. His taste buds are very specific, as you’d expect. I hear him utter a soft “darn it” and suck in a breath as he presumably burns himself while removing the bread from the toaster. (6)

(6) No comment.

“You can wipe off that grin, Bartimaeus.”

“I can’t help it when you’re being silly.”

“Silly? Now that’s a new word.”

“Why, thank you. Yes, my creativity knows no bounds, hence the new word. Besides, it was either cute or silly, so I chose what would probably let me keep my image slightly intact.”

Nathaniel frowns a little as he approaches with two slices of sad-looking bread on a plate. I eye them and then him carefully, but soon return my gaze to the eggs as his warning eyes tell me to drop it. I suppose that his hangover is making him feel slightly moodier, and because I’d yet to see him in this state, I don’t want to push so far that he’ll feel compelled to punish me, even if he hasn’t done anything of the sort in over a year.

Nathaniel drops the plate next to the stove and then remains there, uncomfortably close, staring me down with that frown deepening and irking me enough that I want to pinch his eyebrows. I don’t think he can handle a shriek as heroic as last night’s, so I keep my hands down as I turn to him and wait for yet another verbal berating about something I _hadn’t_ done.

Yet, I was just very wrong. Nathaniel cups my cheeks and pulls me down for a kiss, like the sly motherfucker that he is. And you know me, I live to serve, so reciprocate I do, letting my lips move with his and even go as far as placing a hand on his back to pull him in. In the back of my mind I register a high hissing sound, but I promptly ignore it, since Nathaniel is clearly putting a lot of effort into this. He’s running his hands through my hair and latching onto my lips like I might disappear the next second.

“You’re letting the eggs burn,” he says after pulling back.

I regret to inform that it took me two seconds too long to even register what he was telling me, much less remove the pan from the heat with one swift hand, and then the turn off the heat so the kettle didn’t explode. I did all of this with an arm still swung around his waist, so that I could easily pull him in again before he got a chance to make some sort of degrading comment on my attention span. He humours me, however, even lets a small moan escape as I bite his lower lip. If I keep him entertained like this, he might not ruin the moment, or worse, start asking questions.

I’ve overestimated my abilities, it seems.

“Wasn’t I the one supposed to be slow today?”

That arrogant arse is grinning. I can tell that even before opening my eyes.

“You know I’m powerless to your seductions, sweetheart.”

Nathaniel sighs, looking tired again, and untangles himself from me. He knows we’re just fooling around and nothing more, but I like to keep reminding him. Humans have terrible memory.

The eggs are ruined, and the beans are burning. The bacon is the sole survivor in this sob-tale of a promising breakfast. I prepare myself for the unavoidable earful, but Nathaniel simply tilts his head to the side and says, “If you fold it, it’ll actually resemble an omelette.”

I’m surprised at this easy-going answer, but I’m not about to shoot myself in the foot, am I? So fold the eggs I do, salvage some of the beans, and try to put everything neatly on the plate. I mix in some cold water for the tea and set it down on the counter. Nathaniel seats on a wooden stool he keeps around for God knows what and eats without complaining once. I watch, utterly mesmerised. Christmas might just have come ten months early.

“Will you stare at me throughout the entire meal?”

“Yes.”

“Very well, then.” He faces me with a serious expression, and I blink at him, not knowing how to react to this willingness to be reasonable. “Maybe when you take me out on a date you should leave the cooking to a third party.”

I sputter, indignant at the insult, or at both suggestions, but he’s already walking away by the time I stop, a smirk stuck to his lips.

“Where are you going?”

“Shower. Why? Want to join?” And he’s bold enough to stare at me with that smirk still plastered to his face. Hungover Nathaniel is less endangered than I’d first thought, I’m now realising. He becomes quite willing to play this game I’ve started.

I close my mouth and open it again, feeling suddenly out of my depth. “Maybe I will,” I answer with a suggestive smile. He knows I won’t.

However, his face reddens up a bit and his smirk wobbles for a split second, but I see it clearly and feel accordingly triumphant. I raise an eyebrow at him, daring him to add anything.

“I’ll be waiting, then.” So he says, and off and up the stairs he goes, leaving me massively disturbed and blinking at the wall.

God, I love him.


End file.
